It was naïve to think that burrito thing would work forever. When my eyes finally popped open the next day, Shay was waiting, and I’ve been trying to worm my face back into the cool sheets ever since.
“Did he like … talk?” This is the hundredth question she’s asked in the last four minutes.
“Gahhhh!” All I’ve been able to respond with are grunts and muffled groans.
She tugs at the corner of the blanket, exposing my eye. I strain my sight upward to watch as she runs the tip of her index finger along my eyebrow. She grimaces when my eye meets hers.
“Your brow was a little cray-cray.” She shrugs, and I purposely snake my hand up my body to mess it back up.
“I liked it that way.” I scowl with one screwed-up eye so she can see just how serious I am. I’m just being difficult, and the longer I stare at my best friend, the more my guard—and quilt tortilla—break down and I start to see how absurd all of this is. I snort out a tiny laugh that ignites a real one from Shay, and soon we’re both rolling with laughter and sliding until both of our heads fall backward off the end of my bed.
“Do you think he’s British?” Shay asks.
I bunch my face at her question. Her golden hair is knotted as it hangs from her head, and the green eye shadow she wore last night has bled toward both temples. It’s stark against her pale, freckled skin.
“I can honestly say that hasn’t crossed my mind since I did what I did.”
“Since you kissed a stranger, you mean?” Shay is loving this. She’s always wanted me to color outside my lines. I’d say last night was akin to scribbling.
“Yeah, since I kissed a stranger. But why would he be British?”
I roll my head to the right, the rush of blood making the room tilt as my own tangles cascade across my eyes. I blow my field of vision clear.
“His hair is red … like Prince Harry.”
My lips pucker with repressed laughter.
“I don’t think you can call Harry a prince anymore,” I say, as if that’s the biggest flaw in her logic.
“Oh, he’s still a prince. I mean … ” Shay folds both of her hands over her heart and sighs.
I’m about to join her when a rapid knock against my half-opened bedroom door sends my feet over my head into a full somersault. I stick the landing but flop forward, dizzy from the maneuver.
“There’s a boy here, Frankie.” My dad is holding a bowl while he stabs at whatever is inside with a wooden fork.
“There’s a boy here, Frankie.” Shay’s voice trails off with her teasing tone. My dad glares at her, unamused. When he leaves the room, I scowl next.
“Wait here,” I order.
“Not a chance.”
I figured it was a long shot.
Scurrying around my room, I find a questionably clean Harvard sweatshirt on the floor that I dive into to cover up the thin T-shirt I sleep in. It’s so long that it covers my sleep shorts, making it look as if it’s all I have on,--something I don’t realize until I’m two steps down the stairs with my friend trailing me closely.
His shoes come into view first. Vans, plain … white. Classic. I like classic.
A half-hearted rolled jeans cuff circles his sockless ankle, and the slim fit crawls up a pair of long legs. Up until this point I’ve convinced myself that these jeans, and the legs within, could be anyone. But when my eyes take in the emblem on the navy blue sweatshirt, I pause, just before I’m able to see his face. Shay crashes into my shoulder blades, and we both shout “Ouch!”
We’re wearing the same damn sweatshirt!
“What is it?” Shay’s whisper is hardly a whisper at all. It’s one of her flaws, and the reason she’s terrible with secrets. Her whisper betrays her every single time.
I swallow hard as the boy breathing about ten steps below me bends forward. A set of vivid green eyes and a wry smile greet me from underneath the angled first half of our stairs.
“Nice shirt.” He tugs his out from the center of his chest, as if I need the visual.
“You, too.” Shay laughs at my answer and I swing my elbow back, tagging her boob.
She whispers “Ouch” again; we all hear it.
A few awkward seconds pass and eventually my friend worms her way around me. My feet are